


Polaris

by singtome



Series: Polaris [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Depression, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7590136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singtome/pseuds/singtome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is an unfinished portrait in the middle of the room, and it looks like him.</p><p>(Or: Thomas falls asleep one night and wakes up three years later.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polaris

**Author's Note:**

> This is slightly (a teeny tiny bit) inspired by "How To Live Safely In A Science-Fictional Universe" by Charles Yu, in terms of world building. Mostly Unbetaed for the time being.

     Polaris

 

 

Thomas has a notebook. Inside that notebook is a list. On that list are exactly five points. In order, they read:

  1. **There is no casserole in the fridge.**
  2. **Wednesday is always cold so remember a jacket.**
  3. **Mom said those things because she loved you.**
  4. **You love her, too.**



The final point is written in a black fine tip pen different from the others, capitalised on each word and underlined twice. It says:

  1. **Do Not Go To Newt’s House.**



It is imperative that he Not See Newt. For some reason. He isn’t sure, but there is this clenching feeling in his stomach every time they cross paths, deep deep deep, where his heart beats fast, his eyes begin to sting and a voice in his head says _Run_. He is fairly sure Newt Does Not Want To See Him either.

This began one day and has not stopped.

Another thing he isn’t sure of is where this list came from. It’s just always been there, in the notebook, sitting on the desk in his room. The list is written in his handwriting. He does not recall ever writing it. He ignored it the first time he read it, scoffing and tossing it in some nondescript corner of his room, and proceeded to nearly freeze his ass off one foot out the front door, on a Wednesday, and went to heat up the casserole he thought he had.

He has not seen his mother in three years.

Sometimes he makes the short walk around the house into the large shed-turned-art-studio in the back to sit in the middle of a dusty old rug for hours, inhaling the scent of oil paints until his heart stops hammering, and the feeling of combustion simmers into a dull ache. There is an unfinished portrait in the middle of the room, and it looks like him.

There is always a small blizzard every Wednesday.

His mother disappeared on a Monday, he can’t remember the exact date.

He is pretty sure she loved him. He definitely loved her, too.

Never, absolutely never ever go visit Newt.

There is never any casserole in the fridge _._

School was a pain until it wasn’t anymore. One night Thomas fell asleep sixteen-years-old and woke up nineteen and alone. He is now a High School graduate with all the qualifications and none of the effort, so there’s that. Minho turned up at his house wearing an expression of _I know, man, I know_ and they played video games until lunch.

The sky turned a deep grey around sunset and stayed like that until about 9pm. This sometimes happens, but unlike the snow storm of Wednesdays, it is random and impossible to predict.

That was the day he first noticed the notebook.

It was also the day Newt stopped speaking to him.

His mother never came home.

 

 

That he doesn’t have many friends isn’t exactly a secret. There is Minho, first, and then Chuck and Teresa. There’s also Gally, sort of, but he isn’t completely sure they can call each other “friends” yet, Brenda is something that’s still fresh and awkward, and Aris is more of an acquaintance than anything else. Alby can’t stand him, though to be fair Alby can’t stand anyone whose name isn’t _Newt_ , anyway, so. 

So three. Three, now.

Truthfully – not many people like him. A lot of people seem to hate him. He can’t imagine why (actually he can).

There was Ben, for example: cheerfully handsome Ben, who smiled at everyone like they were his best friend, who took one look at Thomas in the locker hall one day and attacked him. Thomas went home with a sprained wrist and a bruised windpipe, Ben left with a nasty cut above his eye from where Newt swung his hockey stick into his head to get him away from Thomas’s neck, and probably matching concussions.

No one ever thought to call an ambulance, nor the police. 

His mom brushed her fingers through his hair while he sobbed into his pillow, wincing at the horrible pain in his chest, head and arm, and sang to him like he was five again.

 

 

He and Teresa are in her room approximately two months after the Age Jump, when Thomas says, “I just don’t get why the hell he hates me so much.”

“Maybe you did something in Another Life.” Teresa responds, casually filing a nail. Thomas breath catches in his chest, and he lifts his head to stare at her, shocked.

Ah yes. The Other Lives. The ones only accessible in your Dreams. The ones that could drive a person slowly mad if they dwelled too much. They all have them. They are not supposed to acknowledge them, and ever – _absolutely never_ – voluntarily seek them out.

Thomas is perfectly aware of all the other Thomas’s out there, in other universes, in the past, future, middle. The details are sketchy. He also knows perfectly well what the Thomas’s have been through, their sacrifices and their losses. It is just like this that he knows about all the other Teresa’s and all the other Minho’s. The other Gally’s and the other –

Yep.

From some of them he wakes up screaming.

Ms. Paige made it perfectly clear that medication is accessible should anyone need them, but it is perfectly simple the stop by yourself. Simple. Said by someone who doesn’t dream about murdering their former best friends over and over and over. What is simple?

And if Thomas sees this in his sleep, then.

He peeks up to where Teresa has placed the nail file back in its draw and is now watching him, hands between her thighs, knees to her chest, head tilted inquisitively. He blue eyes pierce into his. He has to look away.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“Am I?” She asks, voice lifting in surprise. Thomas simply nods. “Oh, Tom … Do you want to talk about it?”

Thomas scratches at a mark on his jeans, unable to meet her eyes. “He. He talks to Minho, still. And. Other people, too. But not me.”

Teresa nods slowly, tucking silk like hair behind her ear. “You should confront him.”

“I can’t do that.” He frowns.

“Yes, but you have to, Tom. He’ll get lost if you don’t.”

 _He’ll get lost_. Thomas doesn’t mention he’s already lost.

 

 

Their town is tiny. As in, the definition of tiny. As in, you could be in and out of it in under ten minutes, tiny. They have one grocery store, one mall, and one school. A couple parks, and a very small farm – which is essentially Thomas’s back yard, so he’s not sure if it counts, same as how one of the parks is Newt’s. They have a fire station, and a police station, though Thomas doesn’t recall ever seeing a single officer roaming around.

They have one Medical Centre. Thomas is on a first name basis with his doctor (they went to school together but that’s only part of the reason). The other doctor is technically a psychiatrist, who Thomas is forced to see once a week for a number of reasons he is trying to repress (they also went to school together.)

None of their houses match. Thomas’s is technically the largest, if you count land, built in the old-world gothic style of The South. Frypan’s is the closest to his, and a little further down is Gally’s white picket fenced home, and then Newt’s. The other side of the street is The Big City, with Chuck and Teresa sharing matching New York City terrace houses. Next, Minho’s San Francisco town house. It is cute and pastel blue, and it really suits Minho to a T, though Thomas would never say that to his face. 

It goes on and on and on. The rest of the town is not any better. A jigsaw puzzle made from pieces out of a dozen different boxes.

 

 

“Have you been dreaming?” Thomas asks Minho one day. They’re parked outside the grocery complex, idly tossing empty cans into a shopping cart. At this question Minho faults and the can is thrown two inches too far right, and bounces off the brim. It lands on the ground with a loud _clang_ that echoes, making Thomas wince.

Minho turns to him, brushing hair out of his eyes, lip caught lightly between his teeth. “Uh. Not really? I mean, a little. Why?”

Thomas shakes his head at the anxious tone in his friend's voice, softening his expression into what he hopes is assurance. “Nothing, it was just – Yeah, same. I just wanted to see if you did, too.”

Minho’s expression implies that he doesn’t completely believe Thomas, or knows there is more, but is willing to play along for now. “Okay, well. How often?”

“Not often.” Thomas throws a can.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Minho.” It catches the handle and just teeters in. “Don’t worry about it too much, okay?”

In the car later, Minho is still biting at his lip with the same crease between his eyebrows, but has not brought anything up yet. Thomas has to hand it to him and his self-control. The next day they’re lounged in Thomas’s drive way on some inflatable recliners they found in his mother’s studio, watching the sky flash various shades of grey, and Thomas says, “Do you think I’d get lost?”

Minho goes very still. “Do you feel like you will?”

Thomas shrugs. “I don’t know. Not really, I guess. I have it under control, I just can’t help but wonder.” _Will Newt get lost?_ He wants to ask. Instead he says, “Do you think Gally’s gonna do it?”

Thomas watches Minho’s fists clench atop his knees. “No.” He replies, a little too quick and defensively. “No one is getting lost, Thomas!”

“Stephen did.”

“Steve –” Minho pauses. His eyes shut, and Thomas can tell he’s thinking back to terrible aftermath of Stephen. Thomas is fast the push the memory out of his head. “Yeah, Steve did.”

The grey sky flickers for some minutes following until it eventually blinks into a blue so deep it is almost black, painted with stars of every kind, a large glowing half-moon looming in the center. Thomas points to a random spot above them and says, “That’s Scorpio.”

“I choose to just accept that you know all this crap and not try and figure out how.”

Thomas doesn’t think saying _one of the Others was obsessed with astronomy_ will help the situation much, so he keeps quiet. It is too dark and creepy to be sitting outside now. Hairs all over Thomas’s body stand up, and they go inside. Minho decides to sleep over and they snooze curled around each other like kids.

 

 

Chuck and two other girls are the only ones who did not wake up High School graduates, so Brenda and Teresa take it upon themselves to become teachers. When Thomas attempts to enlighten them on how utterly pointless that idea is, they ignore him. They’ve asked for his help long since then, to which he politely declined. He isn’t sure what he could teach them.

_Hey, kids, want to know how the world ended in Another Life?_

No way.

Some days he hangs out with Minho, whenever he is not discreetly unavailable, other days he is with Clint at the medical centre for a regular check-up, others with Jeff. (The Jeff days he enjoys far less, though he could never say that). And then he runs. Around town, through it, all over it. Everywhere. He goes to other’s houses and knocks on people’s doors to keep up appearances, because Jeff and Clint _always_ ask and he doesn’t like the look in their eyes when he has to lie to them, and stays for as long as he can stand.

He shouldn’t (really, he has written evidence that he _shouldn’t_ ) but he runs to Newt’s house.

Newt’s house, which is essentially just a trailer, is littered with wild flowers leading down to a small pond with smoothed over tree stumps used as seating. A sort of decking has been added to the front, rugs of every colour used as shelter, and they cast a mosaic of multi-coloured shadows below. Art, bird cages and dream catchers decorate it all around. It is very weird, very gypsy, and it is like an old painting, picturesque and moody down to the sun beams peeking through the heavy trees above, and very not Newt at all.

Of course, it is possible that he doesn’t know Newt as well as he thought he did. Not anymore, at least.

But the entire scene is chaotically beautiful and intimidating, and he supposes that is Newt exactly.

 

 

“You look worried.”

“What gives you that idea?”

Jeff simply raises a dark eyebrow and writes something in his pad. Thomas sighs and plays with his fingers. “I’m fine, really. Not worried. What would I be worried about?”

“You’re rambling.”

Thomas glares and presses his lips together. “I thought you’re supposed to answer every question with a question.” He mumbles, feeling childish and stupid.

“With you it’s counterproductive, so I improvise.”

Thomas scoffs. In truth, he isn’t worried – he is mildly distressed. And for good reason.

Ben lost himself last week. It was horrible. All he and Gally were doing was walking down the street before Ben suddenly began screaming out of nowhere and didn’t stop, clutching his head and convulsing on the pavement. He was gone before anyone could do anything or get any help. Thomas closes his eyes. He can still hear Gally’s voice begging him to come back.

He never got to see it happen to Stephen, and he wishes he didn’t have to witness it with Ben. Actually watching it happening in front of you is far different then just seeing the end result.

Jeff takes a breath and recites, “Paige’s organized grief counselling if you, or anyone you think that needs it.” He doesn’t sound too excited about this, which for whatever reason Thomas chooses not to touch. He airily traces the pattern on the arm chair and nods, waits for Jeff to speak again.

“I remember when he attacked you back at school.” Jeff says with an odd, quiet voice that makes Thomas look up. “Should have been the first sign.”

He is tapping absently on the pad with a far-away look on his face, and suddenly Jeff isn’t his shrink anymore, but the boy who sat two rows in front of him in English and scratched his head at Shakespeare. Thomas feels a pang in his chest and is overcome with the sudden need to console. No one has seen much of Gally since that day, but Thomas has seen even less of Minho. _Grief counselling_ , Thomas thinks, trying not to feel jealous. He remembers Minho immediately search for Gally when they heard the screaming, pure unbridled panic in his eyes.

No one says it, but he was next on the list.

Chuck has been sleeping in his room since. He doesn’t mind – the extra person next to him is a gentle reminder to keep grounded, anchored, focus on _his_ reality and not the _Others_.

They talk a little longer until Thomas’s session is up, feeling that Jeff isn’t all into it. Before he leaves Thomas pauses at the door and turns back to his old classmate with determined courage and sympathy in his eyes and smile. He tells Jeff that everything is going to be okay, and ignores his head screaming at him as he walks out.

 

 

The last thing Thomas’s mother ever said to him was _Gotta run to work, there’s some casserole in the fridge if you’re hungry!_

The second last thing she ever said to him was _You are a complete fucking mess, Tom._ Then he called her an _unsympathetic bitch_ and locked himself in his room until morning. Two days later she was gone.

He was one of the only town’s member with a parent, so that left Chuck and a girl he’s never spoken to in his life to consolidate with. So, Chuck. They live together now.

Chuck is one hundred times tougher than Thomas can ever dream of being. When he finds him curled up in the studio he doesn’t speak, but a minute later the purple woollen blanket Thomas has on his bed is draped over his shoulders, and he is presented with hot chocolate in a generous mug. He still doesn’t say anything when he curls around Thomas, not a word when the tears start, either.

He takes a particular liking to a painting of a mother deer and her baby and hangs it up over the fireplace in the living room. Thomas doesn’t object.

 

 

It was two days before the great Time Jump that Thomas and Newt lounged atop the crisp leaves in Thomas’s large expanse of land behind his house, the trees above shielding the harsh sun. Newt says, “Do you think this’ll all end, one day?” which Thomas didn’t understand.

“This? As in school?”

Newt laughs beside him, the sound sending a pleasant tickle down to his toes. “Yeah, something like that.”

Thomas squints at him. “No really, what?”

“Nothin’.”

They stare at each other, Newt’s pupils shrunken against the bright light and Thomas finds himself drowning in an ocean of blues and greens and little flecks of brown, right in the corner and only if you look close enough. Which he does, his heart swelling, he does.

He thinks, _please don’t do this to me_. 

“Tommy?” He murmurs, voice deep and soft. 

“Yeah?”

“The Dreams … You get them, don’t you?”

Thomas’s breath shudders, and he thinks Newt must see the panic in his eyes, because he retracts slightly, giving him a bit of room, Thomas’s head still spinning.

“Uhm.” He croaks. “I don’t know?”

Newt picks up a leaf and runs his finger over it gently. “I do. Get them. Though they’re fuzzy, hard to make out sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t –”

“I know.” He looks at Thomas, smiling, saying _don’t worry_ , “I know.” He rolls over, then, pushes up and lays his palms flat on either side of Thomas’s head, placing a knee comfortably between his. Newt leans down close enough for their noses to brush, so that locks of blonde hair fall out from behind his ear and tickles Thomas’s cheek.

He thinks, _please_. He thinks, _please, please, please don’t_.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, nose to nose, staring into the other’s soul, breathing, just breathing so softly, a veil of something they never want to disturb lies in the tiny space between them. Thomas gains the courage to lift his hands to Newt’s waist, and he smiles in return, and it’s all big and happy and pretty and Thomas’s chest hurts. The sun beaming down lights up Newt’s hair like golden fire, and he sighs, laying his head down onto Thomas’s shoulder.

They stay like that until the sun goes down.  

Thomas dreams of Newt hovering over him like he did, except he is crying _Kill me kill me kill me!_

 

 

 

Two months and four days into The Silent Treatment is when Thomas decides he’s had enough. He marches to Newt’s with determination to get answers and an actual conversation and _what the fuck did I do to you!_

(If Newt’s blunt hatred is based upon a particular Life, then Thomas knows exactly what the fuck he did to him.)

He is not prepared when a girl that looks like Newt answers the door, nail polish bottle clamped in her elbow as she pulls the door open, and immediately states, in Newt’s same funny accent, “He isn’t home. Come back around 6-ish, maybe?” and Thomas’s throat turns dry. Her golden hair is flicked with a casual elegance over one shoulder, and deep blue eyes, the same blue he hasn’t seen for months, stares into his while awaiting a response he’s not too sure he can give.

He eventually manages to thank her, dumbly, and before he can get too far she calls out, “Thomas!”

He stops and looks back, his name with her accent causes a churning in the pit of his stomach. She smiles at him sadly, and says, “He’s a stubborn one.” And Thomas thinks she means _Give him time_.

Thomas just wishes he knew how much time, and if he will go crazy in the meantime.

 

 

He was cooking one night when the knife slipped and sliced his wrist open. Instead of making any move to stop the bleeding, Thomas ignored the pain and clenched his fist, watching the red ooze over his palm. Pure dumb luck that Minho came over just in time to find him standing in a pool of his own blood, and rushed him to the medical centre.

Before that he noticed the far off look in his eye as Thomas watched his own blood leave his body with fascination, pressed about five towels to his arm hard enough so that it hurt _bad_ , enough so that Thomas blinked, crying out in pain, and Minho gripped his shoulders, yelling,

“Thomas! Stop it, come back!” Over and over until Thomas finally met his eyes, saw the pure distress and panic and anguish in them, and Minho threw his arms around him, mouth pressed to his neck, breath ghosting over his skin as he whispered, “I’m here, I’m here.” 

Thomas refused the anti-depressants.

Clint gave him sleeping pills – specifically designed to banish the dreaming, but they work like regular old sleeping pills in the end. Before he did he sat Thomas down and, fixing him with an extremely serious stare, told him, “If I give you these, I need your word that you won’t do anything stupid with them.”

Thomas, with a bandaged wrist and restless eyes, responds, “I promise.”

Clint remains hesitant.

“I promise, Clint, I – really. I just, I stopped sleeping for a while, because of …” He trails off, gaze falling into his lap.

It takes ten minutes for Clint to feel content enough to give him the bottle.

 

 

He can’t bring himself to vent to Chuck about everything that is Newt and everything he feels so he doesn’t know what he expects when he visits Gally’s house, but it isn’t he and Newt lounged comfortably in his living room and looking like they’re having a great time. He sees him as soon as Gally pulls open the door. And there: Newt is all relaxed smile and casual posture, bright eyes and shiny and beautiful, and it drops into a surprised tentativeness when he sees Thomas and no, hell no, he can’t do this.

He turns and leaves without saying a word to Gally, who is looking very confused. Someone calls out his name. Thomas doesn’t look back, not stopping until he reaches his house.

He’s tripping over day-dreams and he shouldn’t but he lets them slam into him so hard they burn. Other Thomas’s shout at him as he stumbles through his front door, other Thomas’s cry and laugh and scream in front of his eyes, blocking out Chuck’s concerned questioning. He holds his breath until they stop, until his vision starts to spark at the corners, and Chuck is angrily pounding on his bedroom door, demanding to know what’s wrong, threatening to call someone-or-other.

A minute later he opens the door and finds Chuck, white as a sheet with teary eyed panic, lip quivering. He slams his entire body into Thomas’s chest and cries. Thomas wraps him in his arms and lets him.

 

 

“Fuck.” Is Minho’s main response when Thomas tells him what happened.

“I’m fine now.” He offers.

“You’re fine – Well, _fuck!_ Are you sure?” Thomas doesn’t say that the curse sounds funny coming out of his mouth, and nods. “God damn it …”

Thomas picks at a loose thread on the bed while Minho paces in front of him. His fingertips prickle and he didn’t sleep last night, Chuck curled around him like a living blanket, too afraid to bring on any dreams. But otherwise he feels fine.

Minho is unconvinced, “You’re sure you’re okay?” He asks for the 50th time.

“Yes.” Thomas lies.

Minho eyes him for a long moment before collapsing on the bed beside him. The lamp on the bedside table shines dimly, giving the room a soft, warm glow. “Alright. But seriously, though, I need you to tell me if something is wrong.”

Thomas’s eye itches and he remembers Newt on the floor of Gally’s living room, his laugh echoing out the front door and the words tumble out before he can stop them, “So you can play doctor? You should be a therapist, Minho – give Jeff a run for his money.”

Minho stares at him. “Thomas –”

“I mean, all that time with Gally –”

“Shut up, dickhead, you are not fucking jealous right now?”

Thomas sighs. “No, I’m not.” He says, truthfully. Probably. He misses Minho, he misses his mother. He misses a lot of things.

“Because that’s not what this is about. This is – no, shut the hell up, I’m talking – _this_ , Thomas,” Minho says, “is about you not wanting to face what is really going on here.”

With a huff Thomas stands up and marches to the door, predicting that Minho will try and stop him. When he doesn’t, Thomas pauses, one palm flat on the dark wood, thumb brushing the texture beneath it, curiosity at what Minho thinks he has figured out coiling in his chest, and slowly he turns.

“And what is this about?” He says. “Please. Enlighten me.”

Minho says, “You. You’re Dreaming, Thomas. You’re doing it a lot – I think a lot more than _you_ even realise – and you’re not even trying to stop it.”

There is a moment, a small, tense moment, where no one breathes. Thomas feels stinging in the back of his eyes, a heaviness in his throat, and he can’t look at Minho. “Shut up.” He manages.

“And I don’t think you’re just letting them happen –”

“Shut _up_.”

“– I think you want them to happen.”

“ _Shut up!_ ” He is faintly aware of his voice rattling a small trinket on Minho’s desk, and that he is shaking, and that Minho is standing up now and approaching with the caution of someone trying not to frighten a small animal.

Eventually he calms enough to regain a somewhat normal breathing pattern and unwrap his arms from his chest, wiping at his damp cheeks. Minho takes his arm, gently. “And why,” Thomas asks, voice low and horse, “would I do that?”

Last night Chuck sobbed into his chest, _You can’t do that, okay! You’re not leaving me!_ After which he left the room for a while, and Thomas had no idea where he went, cocooned in bed, until he heard shouting from the house across the street.

Minho speaks like every word causes him pain. “Because. I think, deep down, you want to be Lost.”

 

 

Thomas does not leave his bed for three days. Chuck stops knocking after the second. Teresa breaks into his room via the window, knowing the door would be locked, and he spends the better half of the afternoon silently crying into her lap.

 

 

On the fourth day he goes for a run to clear his head and finally get some fresh air, feeling far more energized after Chuck and Teresa collectively sat him at the table and stared him down until he ate. It was by far the most uncomfortable experience of his life, but he acknowledges it was necessary. He makes a mental note to stop by Minho’s later and profusely apologize while he collapses on a bench. Thomas manages to retrieve his water bottle when a shadow falls overhead, and he looks up to see Newt staring down at him.

There is a very high possibility that Thomas blacks out for a moment, and Newt says nothing as he lets his eyes roam over Thomas’s sweaty, exhausted form. He quietly sits on the other end of the bench.

A minute of stunned silence later he says, “You look like absolute shit.”

Thomas remains silent, pure shock leaving him tongue tied, as he takes in Newt beside him, body arched forward and elbows resting casually on his knees, yet the tense lines of his back and shoulders, the blank, unreadable expression on his face as he gazes straight ahead in thin-lipped passiveness, screams everything but casual.

“I, um.” Newt is saying, “My sister says you stopped by.”

“She did?” Tumbles awkwardly from his lips, and he thinks he meant to say “I did.”

Newt nods. More silence. And then: “Listen, Thomas, I.” Thomas’s heart pounds in his chest. Newt does not complete the sentence, or look like he is attempting to. Anger boils in his chest, and them irritation, shame, more anger, and then just sadness. A long, cold sadness that starts at his ribs and drips into his stomach, pools around his legs and runs down the drain beneath them.

He says, “You don’t have to talk.”

His voice is only a breath above a whisper, and it sounds so understanding that Newt gives the tree on the other side of the road the most relieved look Thomas has ever seen. Thomas sees through the wall Newt has built before himself, notices the purple circles and the weariness in his eyes.

They sit there, not speaking, on opposite ends of the bench, until the sun sets.

 

 

They nod to each other in passing, Newt’s blue eyes meeting his own, and for a while that is all there is.

 

 

“Why would I want that?” Thomas paces in Jeff’s office, too fidgety to sit.

“Maybe you think that’s all that’s left for you.”

He laughs, cold a humourless, and finally rests by the window. It cold and miserable, the rain slowly melting the snow away. Thomas counts the drops on the window and attempts to breathe.

Jeff waits patiently and Thomas is silently grateful to him. He says, “You think I want to die?”

The fabric of the chair creeks as Jeff leans forward, arm balanced on one knee and pen leaning downward in a lazy grip. A look of concern peeks though his Blank Doctor Face that Thomas thinks he puts on especially for him.

“Do you want to die?”

Thomas doesn’t smoke, but he finds himself wishing for a cigarette. “Would you hate me if I don’t know how to answer that?”

Jeff frowns. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

A moment. “Because. I think the difficultly of answering that question wavers depending on who you’re asking.”

Thomas holds his gaze for a second longer, then looks away. The glass is starting to fog. His chest clenches familiarly, and he will not fucking cry in this room.

“Would you hate me if I did?”

“No, Thomas.”

Thomas sniffs. He knows they aren’t talking about _dying_ , not in subtext. They’re not talking about Thomas cutting himself and bleeding out on his kitchen floor, Minho not finding him in time. They’re talking about Ben and Stephen clutching their heads and screaming until all that was left was –

“Do you define it as dying?” Jeff askes.

Thomas turns to him. “What? _That?_ No, Jeff. That is not fucking dying. That is –” He stops, his voice growing too loud. “That is. I don’t know what that is. But it certainly isn’t living.” He’s pacing again. Jeff just watches him. “I mean, sure. We’d like to think it’s dying just to put ourselves at ease. Paige and that slinthead tell us that it’s death, but you know as well as I do that it is _not_. You’ve seen the aftermath. You’ve seen what happens!”

Jeff presses his lips, his expression pained, now.

Thomas continues, “I don’t want to end up like that. No way in Hell. And – And. And why hasn’t it happened yet? Hm? I’ve given it plenty of opportunities but yet –” he throws his arms out “– here I am!”

Jeff’s eyes widen and Thomas realises too late what he’s done, and wants to hit himself. He lets out a shaky breath, and another, and another and _doesn’t cry_. Jeff opens and closes his mouth for a good minute, and Thomas has never seen him at loss for words before. Slowly, dizzily, he sits.

“They won’t stop.” He says into his hands. “They won’t stop, and I’ve tried. I don’t know what to do.”

He feels Jeff’s hand on his shoulder.

 

 

Jeff isn’t an idiot, despite Thomas’s best efforts to think so, and he does not put Thomas on the Dreaming pills, knowing that they do nothing when they’re supposed to do everything. He tells Clint to take him off the sleeping pills, too. Clint does.

“You need to ground yourself,” Jeff tells him, “Take ten minutes or half an hour everyday just thinking about everything _here_. Close your eyes and feel it. Look at pictures, go somewhere that means something to you, sleep with a god damn stuffed toy or something, that’s the only way they’ll stop. You need to make it happen.” He stares right into Thomas’s soul. “Make something good for yourself. Tell them you don’t need them to be _you_.”

Thomas feels hopeless.

He stares at the deer painting above the fireplace, he sits in his mother’s studio inhaling the scent of oil paints. He lets Chuck sleep curled around him, and he spends nights upon nights at Minho and Teresa’s houses, memorising the sound of their voices.

 

 

Newt shoves him behind the fountain in front of the convenience store. “I need to talk to you.” He just says, voice low over the sound of rushing water. He’s close, closer than he has let himself be in months, and Thomas forgets to breathe.  

Newt eyes him. “Look at me. Hey, Tomm – Thomas. Easy there.” He clicks his fingers twice, an inch from his face. Thomas immediately snaps back, visions of 50-foot walls covered in ivy and fears dissolve. Newt nods once, leans back on his heels and stuffs his hands in his pocket, looking a little bit sheepish.

“Liz does that when I get too. Uh. Sorry.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, reaches a hand into the fountain and splashes water over his face, thankful that he can turn his back to Newt for a moment and gather himself. “What did you want?” He asks.

Newt regards him for a second, before, “That day you ran away, when I was at Gally’s. I saw. I saw the look in your eyes. Recognised it.” He says. Thomas blinks. “I guess I wanna help?”

Thomas blinks again. And then: “ _You wanna help_?” He repeats, in a well done but still offensive mimic of Newt’s accent. He is angry again. “Seriously? Now? You haven’t _looked_ at me in _months._ ”

“I realise that.”

“Do you?”

Newt’s eyes narrow. “Don’t start shit now.”

“Or what? You’ll go back to loathing me?” Thomas scrapes a hand through his hair. He wants to scream. _Ground yourself_. “And this is better, I guess. We still won’t talk but hey, at least you acknowledge I’m alive. I still haven’t got you back!”

“And you won’t get me back!” Newt shouts. Thomas stubbornly does not take a frightened step back. “I’m sorry, but you won’t. I can’t change that, Tommy. Things will never be the same and you have to accept that. I have.” Suddenly he sounds miserable, and Thomas deflates slightly. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Thomas says.

“Like you don’t even know me.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

Newt sighs. “Yeah, you do. It’s me.”

Thomas stares. Then he laughs, breathily, and stares some more. “You’re crazy.” He concludes. “Like, you are – you are _actually_ insane.”

Newt sighs even more. “Yes, I’ve realised that, too.”

The fountain water is loud in their ears and people have begun to stare at them as they walk past. Thomas does not want to be here, but he also wants to be nowhere else. Newt still gazes at him with apprehension, frowning against the sun and shuffling his feet, hands still pocket deep. Thomas wants to grab him and shake him until they go back to how they were. He internally begs for help.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to make any of this better.”

Newt looks to his shoes. “Nothin’, I guess.” 

“Nothing?” Newt hums. Thomas glares. “Nothing at all. Okay. Alright. You said you can help me? How?”

Newt doesn’t answer. He continues gazing at the ground with a far-off look in his eyes, brows furrowed, tired and miserable. He realises this is what he must look like to other people. Angrily, Thomas lifts his hand and snaps his fingers twice directly in front of Newt’s face. He waits for Newt to startle before storming away.   

 

 

“Do you think we could leave? Like, one day, I mean.” Brenda asks. When Teresa gives her a blank stare she elaborates with, “From here.”

Teresa nods. “Yes, I got that. Probably? There’s nothing stopping us.”

“Yet.” Chuck helpfully adds, not looking up from his notebook, where he is either scribbling something for English or Math, it’s hard to tell.

“I’d like to go.” The girl beside Chuck (Teddy, he thinks her name is) pipes up. Brenda grins and presses her fist to the girl’s shoulder. Teresa swoops her hair out of her face and sighs, flipping a page and highlighting something.

“Go where?” Thomas says, “For all we know, this is it.”

Brenda turns to blink at him, as if she is just noticing he’s in the room. “Who invited Mister-Glass-Half-Empty?”

Thomas rolls his eyes from where he is lounged in a position that could have been comfortable maybe a half-hour ago, but must not be anymore, in the arm chair across the reading room. It’s small and Victorian inspired, kind of cute. There’s a lot of greens and browns. It reminds Thomas of a clearing in the middle of the forest, sun beaming from the partially pulled curtains to create a near blinding rectangle in the centre of the rug.  

Thomas is not offended by the _glass-half-empty_ joke, partially because it is true, mainly because he is wondering the same thing. He’s been sitting here for the entire morning and contributing absolutely nothing.

“He likes to be included.” Teresa says, noncommittedly.

Thomas, ever the introvert, doesn’t. And Teresa knows this. He guesses she may have had a conversation with Jeff and/or Clint recently. Brenda hums.

“Well,” she says, “you might as well make yourself useful, _Bicho_. I need a fucking break.” She stretches and there is an audible crack emitting from between her shoulder blades that makes Teresa grimace. She stands up and heads to the door one satisfied sigh later, shooting, “Want anything, _Muñeca?”_ over her shoulder.

“I’m okay, thanks.” Teresa murmurs, still frowning, now with a highlighter between her teeth. She looks at Thomas. “Anything you can contribute, Tom?”

Thomas breathes out slowly through his nose, closes the sketchbook and tucks his pencil behind his ear. Leaning forward, he says, “Erm, Astronomy?”

Teddy’s eyes widen with delight, and Chuck abysmally attempts to stifle a groan. Teresa smiles.

 

 

Later, when he is leaving, Thomas asks, “You’re not worried about me yapping about space?”

Teresa answers, “Not really. It makes you happy. I like seeing you happy.”

He folds her into his chest maybe for five minutes, liking how tall she is and resting his chin atop her head comfortably, her silky black hair smelling like oranges. The night is warm. Polaris shines above them.

 

 

Minho has begun running with him nearly every day, and while Thomas reasons that he should be thankful for this, all this constant attention is honestly just a little more than irritating. _Smothering_. Teresa and Minho surround him whenever they can, and Thomas – who never quite grasped the science of using his words – does not let either of them in to the fact that he has been with the other practically all day. So, naturally, they hover.

He should say something. He should also find a ditch somewhere and take a swan dive.

Options.

The doorbell rings. Fucking. Christ.

Thomas charges toward it, fists clenched and acid on his tongue ready to spit at Minho when he opens to door. He stops short upon almost ripping the thing off its hinges when he sees Newt slouching on his porch, and all thought leaves him. Newt’s hands are stuffed in his pockets, collar turned upward against the Wednesday chill, and his cheeks are red, eyes uncertain. Thomas falters.

He softly tells him to go away, and afterward panics that he will. Newt almost looks like he’ll comply for a second, but plants his feet firmly and locks Thomas’s gaze with steely determination.

“We need to talk.” He says.

Thomas’s hand grips the doorframe until his knuckles turn white. _Please don’t do this._

“Like, now.”

_Don’t do this to me._

Newt continues, “We should have done a while ago but I … Look, I just need to talk to you.”

The kind of clenching in his stomach and chest that usually occurs before Thomas spends the better part of an hour openly sobbing rises up. “Do you?” He whispers, raising an eyebrow. “Like I needed to talk to you?”

An emotion flashes across Newts face then, and Thomas can pinpoint the exact moment he realises where this conversation is heading.

“Thomas …”

“My mom –”

“Tommy.”

Thomas speaks over him, “My _mother_ disappeared. She just disappeared. For a while I wasn’t even sure she was ever here to begin with. All of her clothes are gone, all her makeup, all of the things in her room. Everything that was hers is gone except for those fucking paintings!” His fist collides with the door and Newt visibly flinches. Thomas is only half aware of the fact that he is shaking. Upstairs a door opens and closes, and a soft padding barely registers over the roaring in his head as Chuck attempts to sneak down the hall. 

“She was gone and I needed you. _You_ , Newt … But you’d already decided that some fucking Dreams of another me levels above all that.”

Newt has gone quite pale and is now leaning again the railing. “I’m sorry.” He says, brushing hair out of his face. Thomas watches the motion, pained. “I should not have cut you out like that, I know. It was so bloody selfish, I get that now. I’m sorry.” He repeats. Thomas thinks they’re miles past _sorry_ now, but Newt never apologises (to anyone) and he decides in that moment to hear whatever else he has to say.

“But you have to understand what it was like waking up with all of these memories of things that you, and me, and all these other fucking horrible –” he pauses, regains himself, takes a deep breath, “It wasn’t easy. Not one bit. Cutting you out was not something I ever wanted, Thomas, but I could barely look at you without wanting to throw up.”

“But that wasn’t me.” He repeats, firmly. “It wasn’t you, either.”

“I know that!” Newt spits. “You think it makes it any easier? It doesn’t, please understand that.”

“You have to separate things from Others to Here.”

Newt looks at him, humour in his eyes and the corners of his mouth. “Oh, and you’ll be the master of that, huh.”

Thomas doesn’t flinch. “No. Hell no. But I’m getting better at it. Sort of …” 

“Sort of?”

Thomas gnaws the inside of his cheek. “It’s hard.” He admits, defeated.

Newt’s expression feels colder than the icy air around them. “Yes, it fucking is.”

Thomas sighs. His hands and feet are numb. “Are you gonna come in, or do you want to just stand there ‘til you get frostbite?” Newt hugs himself and doesn’t answer. He does not look like he wants to enter the house, though neither is he going to leave any time soon. Something inside Thomas snaps.

“Listen, if you’re going to go, then just leave already. But don’t come back.” Newt looks up at this. “I’m tired. And I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

“Do what?” Newt says, knowing perfectly well what.

Thomas waves a frost pink hand. “Us.”

“Us.” Newt repeats. “Is there still an ‘us’?”

Is there?

Long ago, too long, a century possibly, when Wednesdays couldn’t potentially kill you and no one Dreamt, one quiet summer evening; Newt’s face glowing blue and pink and green under his porch lights, smiling, laughing carefree, eyes bright and filled with mirth, and Thomas remembers feeling so in love he thought he might die from it. Combust into nothing but particles; stardust, and float away. Dizzy, a little drunk on nothing but air and the look of Newt’s face as he leant in over the small coffee table, and a kiss, no longer than a second and no more than a brush of lips.

He remembers the buzz of adrenaline, then the brief, horrible panic until finally calm elation when Newt’s shocked expression broke with a wide, beautiful smile, and all the air left the world.

“No.” Thomas says, staring at the ground. “No, I guess not.”

 

 

The blizzard displayed no signs of letting up and, if anything, worsened during their little chat on the porch. Sighing, Thomas calmly advised Newt to get in the house if he even remotely felt like surviving the night. Eventually, reluctantly, he agreed. Chuck, who had failed in being aloof in anyway, attempted to flatten himself against the bannister like a chameleon as Newt awkwardly trudged into their home. Two sets of eyes met his, and round, freckled cheeks turned red.

Thomas sighed. He finds he is doing this a lot lately.

“Newt’s staying tonight.” He says to Chuck, and it is in every way a dismissal. Chuck, ever vigilant, nods once, eyes lingering on Newt for a moment before he turns and retreats up back to his room. To Newt, Thomas says, “We don’t have a guest room so you’ll have to use the couch. It’s pretty comfortable, I promise.” and points him in the direction of the closet with spare blankets, which he’ll have to get himself.

(He doesn’t. Thomas gets them for him not even a minute after. He really hates himself sometimes.)

 

 

“I have to go.” Thomas announces, barely a whisper. Newt groans and tightens his arms around his middle, face in Thomas’s hair and hands fisted in the worn cotton of his T-shirt. His fingers brush his ribs, and Thomas thinks he could probably feel his heart beating. “I know, I know. But I really do.”

More groaning, some whining. Thomas laughs.

“I’m sorry, but mom’ll kill me if I don’t get home soon.”

This does it. Reluctantly, Newt finally lets up, loosening and lifting his arms off of Thomas’s body in a half-assed surrender pose. It’s late and they have school tomorrow, but it is strangely cold outside and Newt is very warm. He turns to face him. Newt looks regretful and unwilling to let him leave the confines of his bedroom (first an office – all that fits is the bed and a lamp. Some posters. More string lights), his hair is tied in a messy bun, loose strands framing his face, and a shirt that is maybe two sizes too big slips off his shoulder exposing a nice quantity of skin, and Thomas mentally calculates the minutes he might be late home over the amount of weeks he will be grounded.

Newt grins wolfishly, but his eyes, soft, betray him. He shoves Thomas once on the shoulder. “Fine. Get outta here.”

Thomas scoffs and steals a quick kiss. He passes Newt’s sister on the short trip to the front door. Lounged on the couch, she grins as he walks by, peeking around to spot her brother shadowing him. Thomas guesses she’s all elated at the death glare Newt is most probably giving her.

“Bye, Tommy.” She sings, gleeful tone filled with meaning.

It is cold enough that Thomas finds himself zipping his jacket to preserve warmth, and convinces Newt not to walk him home.

 

 

The next day the blizzard arrives. The town is in panic. He can’t find his mother. He spends hours upon hours looking for her, running all over town shouting her name, before finally ending up at Newt’s trailer. Newt, mouth pressed into a tight line and icy eyes colder than the snow, tells him to _leave me the shuck alone_ before slamming the door in his face.

 

 

He makes pancakes because it’s 5am and he can’t sleep, so what else is there to do. Chuck finds him, three stack-high plates later, and happily digs in. Thomas allows himself a moment of pride for the delighted gleam in the boy’s eye. He’s just about to mix another batch for, who knows, Minho or Teresa probably, when a voice behind him says, “This place is a lot bigger then I remember.”

He turns. Newt is standing in the threshold between hallway and kitchen, wrapped in a blanket despite the Thursday warmth, looking awkward. Chuck, also awkward, focuses intensely on his breakfast while attempting to melt into the stool. Thomas stares.

“Yeah.” Throat dry, he says, “It is.” He doesn’t say _Mom’s personality took up half the square footage_. He doesn’t say _Sometimes I miss her so much I can’t breathe. The loss of her is everywhere in this house and I’m suffocating._ “Gets bigger every day.”

Newts nods slowly, and after a moment – after analysing that he is allowed to – takes a seat at the breakfast bar. Voice warm, he says, “Mornin’, Chuckie.” And Chuck flushes, partly because he’s outgrown the pet-name, mostly because Thomas can predict that he would rather be anywhere but here right now because _Oh my God it’s Newt_.

“Morning, Newt.”

Thomas turns back to the whisk.

“When did you learn to bake?”

“Somewhere between sixteen and nineteen.” He half wishes he’d used the electric mixer, now.

Newt hums. “They taste great.” He says.

“They’re just pancakes – not exactly rocket science.”

_Delta-v, as used in spacecraft flight dynamics, is a measure of the impulse that is needed to perform a maneuverer such as launch from, or landing on a planet or moon, or –_

Thomas squeezes his eyes shut for some moments, counting backwards from ten in Spanish.

Newt says, “Better than I could have done.”

Deep breath.

“Thanks.”

He checks out for a period of time following. When he wakes his arm is extremely sore and Chuck is tapping his fork loudly against the plate; the high, ceramic shriek assaulting his ears. Thomas calmly, albeit shaky, drops the bowl onto the counter.

“So,” Chuck begins, sipping his juice, “how long‘re you staying?”

“Uh.” Newt stammers, taken aback. Thomas chances a look over his shoulder, groping around for the cling film. Newt’s cheeks have gone slightly pink. “Well. I was just on my way out, actually –”

“Will Lizzy be worried?”

“Uhm.” Newt scratches at his scalp, blond hair sticking up in all directions. “No. I texted her last ni –”

“Cool, so why don’t you stay for a bit? Thomas’s cleaning out the studio today and he could use some help.”

“ _Chuck_.” Thomas tries not to snap, closing the fridge a little too hard. He turns, attempting a civil smile. “Why don’t you get ready for school. I’ll walk you.”

Chuck gives him a look of _No you will not_ and promptly runs along to his room. Thomas sighs. Damn teenagers. Not two minutes later he is bounding back down the stairs and running out the door with only short farewells, and it is quiet.

It is quiet for some time, and then, “You’re cleaning out the studio?”

Thomas winces. “Yeah.”

A pause. “Why?”

“We need the room.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know, Newt.” He finally snaps, and Newt tenses up. “We just do.” When Thomas fails to receive a response he rakes a hand through his hair irritably and makes to leave the room, until –

“I’ll help you … If you want.”

Thomas shuts his eyes. Breathes. Opens them.

Alright.

“You –” He stutters. “I mean, if you want … Sure. Okay. Yeah, thanks. I need to get dressed, you –” He glances at the thermometer, then back at Newt. “You can borrow a shirt.”

Newt borrows a grey tee that’s a little too big for him. Thomas’s fingernails leave crescent indents in his skin.

 

 

“Bloody hell, these are all so good.” The sound of Thomas scuffling around through piles of messy books and canvases is only so loud as to exemplify the fact that Newt is not scuffling. His hand slides across a sharp edge of a watercolour page, cutting him. His left eye twitches briefly.

“They are. Could you please help me with those canvases on the shelf?”

“I always liked this one.” Newt says as if he hadn’t heard, and Thomas doesn’t need to look up to know which painting Newt is referring to. Instead he just hums, and keeps on (carefully) placing the sketchbooks into a small box. “It’s you, right?”

Thomas shrugs, “I guess. Who can really tell?”

“It looks like you.” Newt says.

“Okay.”

“It has your eyes –”

“Newt please, can you just –”

Newt finally turns and faces him. “Why are you doing this?” He says, eyes searching the room as if he can find the answer for all of the world’s problems in it. Thomas seethes.

“Doing what?” The corners of his vision begin to tint, and he feels what is coming.

Newt outstretches his arms. “This, Thomas. All these paintings – all of your _mum’s work_ – why are you just throwing them away?”

“Who the fuck says I’m throwing them away?” He clenches his fists. “And you don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do with my mother’s things. She isn’t here anymore, and they’re just taking up space.”

“For what?”

“ _I don’t know!_ ” Thomas roars. A box of scrapbooks go flying across the floor. “Just … something! Everything! Space!” An easel hits the floor with a loud _Bang_ and a small dust cloud. Newt stands very still. “It’s too much everywhere, and I need it gone, okay? So if you’re not going to help, then get out.”

“Tommy.”

Thomas cracks. “Get out, Newt!” He shouts. Newt simply stares back at him. “Please just go.”

Newt sets his jaw. “I’m not leaving.”

Thomas laughs, breathy and hysterical. “Why not?”

“Because I need to make sure you won’t have a bloody stroke, you idiot.” Thomas barely registers his voice is soft, just as soft as when he addressed Chuck earlier that morning. His fingers scrape through his hair, gripping, and he wants to sit down. 

“My God, just go away. Newt, just …” The air is growing thick. “Please leave me alone. Why are you still here?”

“You –” Newt cuts himself off. “Chuckie asked me to help.”

Thomas nods slowly. “Yeah. Chuck did. Not me. So if you don’t mind …” The world is spinning. He needs to sit down. “Just go.”

Newt is looking at him, long and hard, seemingly fighting an internal battle. Thomas looks to the ground, not allowing himself to be swept up in the gaze. It is all of three minutes of Newt watching Thomas calm his breathing, pacing around the studio before he is content, says, “Okay.” and leaves. Thomas feels blood drip down his fingers. 

 

 

The next session with Jeff, Thomas breaks the snow globe sitting beside Jeff’s chair, and steps over glitter water seeping into the carpet as he storms from the room a minute later. The next next session he replaces the first snow globe with a less pretty one, raked with guilt. Jeff accepts the gesture with no hard feelings. Thomas doesn’t ask if the first held any sentimental value, and feels horrible. 

The glitter residue against the tan carpet looks like a crime scene. 

Today, he sits at the usual spot by the window. It is raining again, the water melting away dew that clung to the grass and trees. “You didn’t tell me you were cleaning out your mom’s studio.” Jeff says.

“I don’t have to tell you everything. You already know the gritty details of my life, gotta save some things for the imagination.” He feels the sudden need to wink. He thinks he’s going insane.

“And you’re cleaning it out, why?”

Thomas shrugs, flicking his nails. “I just want to.”

“Want or need?”

“Need. Whatever.”

“Then why did you say 'want'?”

“God, I don’t know, Jeff. I just did.”

“Maybe you feel like getting rid of the only things that stuck around after she disappeared would somehow erase the presence of her in your life, while giving you some kind of sense of backward accomplishment to throw away the one comfort you do actually give yourself in life, just so you can prove to yourself that you don’t need it? But you’re afraid that once you do she’ll still be there and all of that was for nothing, Thomas?”

Thomas turns to Jeff. “I’ll break the snow globe again.”

Jeff reclines in his chair, expression tired, eyes fixed on his client. “Sometimes, Thomas, I feel like we’re going 'round in circles.”

Sometimes, Thomas feels that, too.

 

 

Thomas knocks, not gently, against Minho’s front door. After a minute’s delay he answers, irritated and half dressed, eyes softening when they land upon his visitor. Thomas wastes no time. “I’m going to need you not to be around me for a few days.”

One of Minho’s eyebrows slowly lifts, and then the other. “Um … What?”

Thomas takes a deep breath. “You heard me, I –”

“Yeah, no, no – I heard you, that isn’t the problem here. Listen, Thomas, can we talk a little later, I –”

Thomas shakes his head. No. He just needs to get this out now and then Minho is free to return to his canoodling as he wishes. “No, just. Don’t come by. I’ve already seen Teresa about this.”

“Whoa, whoa!” This catches his attention. “You’ve seen Teresa about what? What the hell is up with you right now?”

“Nothing, I just ...” He groans.

Minho shakes his head, opens the door further. “Okay, so you don’t want to see anyone for a while. And what about Chuck? You gonna kick him out, or?”

“God, no, of course not.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

Thomas lets out a frustrated growl and grips his hair. He knew Minho wouldn’t be like Teresa, that he would try and fight, where she had just looked at him with a sad smile, eyes even sadder, and said, “Take whatever time you need, but … just know that I’m not going anywhere.” She then kissed his forehead and let him leave. 

Because Minho is waiting for an explanation Thomas isn’t completely sure he can formulate into actual words. In the end he goes with shouting, “I just need to be left alone, okay! I don’t need you or anyone _around_ me all the damn time, hounding me, sitting on my fucking back asking me if I’m okay!”

“And that’s –” Minho sighs, suddenly tired. “That’s all good and fine, but … You know whats happening here, don’t you?”

Thomas sniffs, shaking his head incredibly. “And what’s that.”

Minho stands his ground, fixing Thomas with a firm stare, unrelenting. He looks like he does not want to say whatever he is going to say next, but powers through.

“All of this? You’re doing exactly what Newt did to you. You’re shutting us out, Thomas.”

“I am not shutting you out, I’m …” He honestly didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“You are.”

Over Minho’s shoulder Thomas catches an arm disappear around the corner hall. Gally, Thomas muses, probably very concerned with all the screaming through the house, but trusting Minho enough to handle the situation himself to not need to get involved. He’s partly grateful, one half of him glows with approval while the other sends a cold dagger of envy through his stomach.

“Tell me you get that?” Minho is saying. Above them the sky dims and greys.

Thomas wavers and leans against the cool brick for balance. “I am not Newt, Min.”

“I’m not saying that, man, I’m just –” Minho wipes a hand down his face, and Thomas is only now noticing the restlessness in his eyes, the fear and concern, the wavering anxiety. “I hated him for cutting you off. But you know what I hated more? The fucking place it put you in.” Minho pauses again and Thomas knows he is remembering late night hospital visits and mid-morning breakdowns. “But this, Thomas, this – right here, what you’re doing right now – is everything you hated him for doing to you. Do you see that?”

He does. He does see it, has seen it for a while now, and he hates it. Minho putting everything into perspective is shattering, to say the least. There he was craving attention only to break under it.

Everything spawns right back to one thing, only.

Thomas leans against the cool brick of Minho’s house, attempting to steady himself. “I just. I – I want things to go back to how they were.”

“I know you do, Thomas.” Minho says, voice low and kind.

“I want my mom back. I want to know where she went, Minho, I want to know what happened to her.”

Minho winces. “I know, I know …”

They stand there for a moment, until Minho says, “Do you still need to be left alone?”

Thomas thinks, really thinks about it, and then, “Yeah … I do.” He says uncertainly, “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Minho breathes, “Tommy, it’s fine. Just take care of yourself.”

Thomas nods. “I think you’re being missed, so …”

Minho doesn’t let up. “I mean it. Promise me.”

They lock eyes, and Thomas feels something inside him soften. “I promise.”

“Good.” He half expects Minho to kiss him also, but he just smiles sadly, like Teresa did, grips his shoulder tight and let’s Thomas leave. He is overly quiet when Chuck arrives home, and the boy doesn’t push it. He refrains from crawling into Thomas’s bed like he usually would, graciously giving him space.

 

 

A week later he sees Minho and Teresa again. Teresa invites him up to her room for a gossip session like the ones they haven’t had since they were thirteen, acting like nothing ever happened, and Thomas loves her for it. With Minho, they throw cans into abandoned shopping carts in comfortable silence, and later Minho lays his head in his best friend’s shoulder, breathing, “Fuck you stress me out. I need to tell you that, get it off my chest. Also I love you, dickhead.” and Thomas laughs softly, reclining back on the blow up couch.

 

 

There is a note attached to the back of the large illustrative portrait with his soul-piercing eyes, and it is in his mother’s handwriting:

**_Be safe, sweet boy. Live and love and be happy. I will never forget you._ **

 

 

 _This is the world now._ Thomas thinks, walking through town with no actual destination in mind. _This is_ my _world now_. _Time to live in it._ Above, the sky flickers, dulling the world around him. The grass is less green, the trees lose saturation. It’s. Well. It is not ideal, but it paints a stunning – if eerie – picture to say the least. He begins to run.

He is running for all of three whole minutes before a woman steps out in front of him, blocking his path, her white-blonde hair that is not secured firmly in a high bun moving gently in the wind. He skids to a stop before running head first into her, and she gives a yelp of surprise. Her smile is kind as to match her eyes, yet it sends an offhand shiver up Thomas’s spine anyway.

“Mr. Murphy.” She greets. There is no mock delight in any aspect of her body or voice, yet Thomas picks up on a hint of caution, and spectacles she knows about his Dreams.

“Ms. Paige.” He greets back, absently wiping a bead of sweat off his brow.

Ava steps forward, just a step. Thomas silently wonders if she can smell them on him, like a bloodhound. “I trust you’re well?”

Everything about her is stark white, except for her shoes. They’re black, with little cats on the toe. Thomas pulls his eyes from them, “Yeah, yeah. Can’t complain.” He says smoothly, shooting her a practised smile full of straight teeth and please-go-away.

Ava gives him one back, one – he thinks – that is far more convincing than his own. “That’s good to hear.”

Thomas holds eye contact for a beat longer before nodding and stepping around her. He makes it five feet away before his name is being called and he turns to Ava to hear, “Know that if you ever need to speak to me about anything,” She says, “Anything at all, you are very welcome to.”

 _Never_.

“Thank you for the kind offer.” Thomas smiles. _In a million years_. “I’m very grateful.” _You make my skin crawl._

The sky flickers once, twice, three times before fading. The moon shines above.

_You sent my mother away._

“Thank you, Ava.”

 

 

Somewhere, someone decided this town was a good idea. Somewhere, sometime, Thomas would like to meet them and wring their necks. Tear up the pages they drew the plans on, burn the notebooks they filled, smash the computers they coded. Then (maybe) they’ll learn their lesson.

 

 

“What is this?”

Newt grins and holds it out. “Casserole.”

Thomas blinks at him.

“Yeah. Rock-bottom-casserole.” Newt shoves it in his arms. “Congrats on hitting it.” He steps around and into Thomas’s house, dumping gloves, a beanie and jacket on the nearest couch, either overlooking the coat rack and side table or completely ignoring it. “Although, my sister made it, not me.”

Thomas blinks at Newt again, then down at the family sized tub in his hands. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Welcome. The guilt was eating me alive.”

Thomas scoffs, shaking his head and kicking the door closed. “I hate you.” He says, truthfully.

“I know.” Newt says, also truthfully. “I kind of hate you too, a little bit.”

“Thanks.” Thomas grins.

“Welcome, again.” He gives a soft smile. Thomas moves into the kitchen, placing the casserole on the grey quartz counter, hands tingling. Behind him, Newt is drumming his fingers against his thigh and biting his lip, brow furrowed. Thomas leans against the counter, and waits patiently. Eventually Newt says,

“Hey, I just noticed you moved in to the … neighbourhood.”

And.

Well.

It isn’t exactly what he had expected to come out of his mouth.

“Do you need to go lie down, or something?” Thomas asks and Newt shoots him a _look_ in response.

“ _I thought_ ,” he begins, words over-pronounced, “I’d come over and introduce myself.” And then, of all things, he steps forward and holds his hand out to Thomas, who stares at him in frozen shock. “Name’s Newt.”

He’s standing close enough for Thomas to see the weather flush on his cheeks battle with the light dusting of summer freckles across his nose, the small flecks of green and brown among a sea of blue in his eyes, and mildly chapped lips. His eyes are bright, that familiar restlessness Thomas recognises so well (in both Newt and the bathroom mirror) has reduced slightly. Just slightly, but it’s enough to instil a flutter through Thomas’s stomach, one that feels a lot like hope.

So he whispers, “Thomas.” and slips his hand into Newt’s waiting palm. There is no way to tell how long they stood like that, in Thomas’s kitchen, hands clasped and eyes hesitant, guarded, afraid to get hurt but more afraid to never try. All matter of common thought had fleeted from his head as soon as the corners of Newt’s lips tentatively turned upward into a smile.

 

 

“How are you feeling today?”

“I’m okay, actually.”

“Really?” Jeff asks, unable to tear the pleasant surprise from his voice. Thomas grins at him, sheepishly.

“Yeah,” He nods, “Yeah I think so.”

“Have the Dreams …?”

Thomas fiddling with his hands a bit. The sunlight is warm, shining on both him and Jeff, who he is seated opposite of. “They haven’t stopped. Not completely. But they’ve … slowed. Yeah.” He looks up at Jeff. “I’m ok with that.”

Jeff doesn’t write anything in his book, or look at it, where it and his pen sits forgotten on the table beside him. He slows the questions and allows Thomas to talk if he wishes.

It’s gotten to a point where Thomas can see himself looking at Other Lives and shuts it down immediately. The danger of being Lost merely a fleeting concern, now. “Everything’s kind of slowed down.”

“How so?”

How? In more ways than one, and in such ways that Thomas doesn’t think he can say out loud, at least not yet. The air feels less heavy, he doesn’t want to choke as soon as he steps into his home any longer. People are giving him more space than before, which he appreciates, and most of this time alone is spent lying in the forever autumn leaves in his backward, watching the clouds float by. Breathing. Just breathing.

He feels his heart constrict and his pulse quicken every time Newt so much as looks at him, but it’s different somehow. New. Waiting to be explored. Nothing at all like what they had before and, actually, he is very okay with that.

If when Newt visits and he and Thomas take a select few paintings and artworks to display around the house, and on the second last step before the staircase landing where Newt is standing, balanced, tongue between his teeth in concentration, trying to hang a painting perfectly straight, if Thomas reaches out and slips two fingers under his elbow, and leans in capturing his mouth with his, and Newt stiffens for only a moment before sighing and kissing back, just as soft, and he thinks _None of the Others have this. This is ours_ , then.

That’s alright, too. 

 

 

There is a notebook sitting on the desk in Thomas’s room, three inches from the centre and parallel to the edges. There is nothing particularly noteworthy about this book; simple and black, slightly worn on the edges with little etchings on the front, as if someone had sat for an hour repeatedly scratching a blank pen over it. Perhaps the most interesting thing about it is that it has sat there for approximately nine months, twenty-four days and five hours, untouched, after appearing out of the blue one morning.

And the writing. The five clear instructions that once occupied the first page are now gone. Thomas runs his finger over it, feeling for non-existent indents, and sighs. Quietly, he sits and, taking a pen, he begins;

  1. **There is casserole in the fridge**.



 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://singt0me.tumblr.com/) here


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